


To Dash Against the Darkness

by TheTalentedMrHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boredom, Cunnilingus, F/F, Female John, Female Sherlock, Femlock, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation, Vaginal Fingering, Victor isn't bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalentedMrHolmes/pseuds/TheTalentedMrHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggled with the pain that came hand in hand with being bored since childhood. She never thought companionship and intimacy would be a result of boredom though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Dash Against the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Title from I Will Wade Out by e. e. cummings.  
> Not Beta Read - sorry for any mistakes!  
> Fic inspired by this (NSFW) image:  
> http://25.media.tumblr.com/6921a09d779a930155345183375130aa/tumblr_mx7yg3NENa1qm6pfzo1_1280.jpg

 

As a child Sherlock threw fits to deal with the ineffable boredom that pained her mind. Boredom meant a lack of focus and a lack of focus in Sherlock's mind meant hell.

It was as though her mind opened up to let all the information in the world flood in, in hopes that something was interesting enough to entertain her. She would sit wherever she happened to fall and stay there almost catatonic. She made no noise (except perhaps the occasional sob or whine) until she was either distracted and the pain passed or she gave up and forced herself into unconsciousness.

Sometimes her brother would find her, curled in the deepest corners of the house, and would carry her back to bed. He would close the curtains and read Treasure Island for the umpteenth time to her. No matter how many times Mycroft read it to her, she couldn't bring herself to hate the book.

On occasion, Mother or Father found her and also took her to bed. They closed the curtains, shut off the lights, tucked her in, locked the doors and windows and left her alone in silence.

Sherlock could never decide which method she preferred. It was easy to focus on the narrative and Mycroft's voice, but her parents allowed her to be alone with her thoughts and without unwanted stimulation, allowing her to think and breathe uninterrupted.

Age ten, Mycroft - now eighteen - fled for university and Sherlock was left with only their parent's method of coping. She knew then that she preferred company over silence, but it was too late to ever build on it. Her parents were set in their ways now and Mycroft grew more distant with each visit home.

During her teenage years and with no other option, she had to take matters into her own hands. Mycroft was gone, Father was gone, and Mother was an echo lucky to be glimpsed in the corner of one's eye. Sherlock tried her best to survive.

Reading Treasure Island - aloud or in her head - wasn't the same; it didn't give her the same focus and her mind would often stray into too much detail like a crazed Literature expert. She understood long ago that it wasn't the tale, but the company that made her feel better. But without company the only other alternative was loneliness. She was used to loneliness; it protected her in a world where children were cruel, adults were lazy and stupid, and mothers were ghosts.

In mental agony, Sherlock had to try a new approach. The only problem was that the experiments that followed weren't very scientific.

She would lock herself in a small space after removing everything she could to prevent stimulation and found she was better.

She would run a bath and calculate how long she would be able to stay under the water to take away even more stimulation (without drowning in the meantime, of course). She was better after this method too.

Each method she tried she felt better.

Excellent. Except, on the second attempt of each method, nothing worked at all.

She wasn't a fool. She knew that it was the distraction of the experiments that had helped focus her mind, but a part of her couldn't help but hope that the solutions she came up with really did work. Soon she ran out of ideas for experiments and was back to shutting herself in the dark.

Sherlock was plagued by fits of her mind breaking away from her control in a whirlwind of screeching consciousness until she was nineteen.

Her peers were still cruel, adults still lazy and stupid and Mother was literally and metaphorically further away than ever. But the absolute worst thing about university was the free time she had.

Once she finished a lecture or seminar she was free to do what she wanted. Most of her peers talked, studied, went to work, but Sherlock didn't need (or want) to do any of those things. Playing the violin helped her stave off unwanted episodes, as did the occasional dip into ballet or boxing, but nothing lasted forever. And when every day was filled with repetitive boredom, Sherlock stood no chance.

One night she decided she'd had enough of the looming sense of unease and restlessness she constantly felt. She covertly followed a group to some club or party - she'd deleted the details - planning to get as drunk as her body was physically capable of being. Alcohol slowed the mind so maybe that was just what she needed and potentially just what she'd been missing all these years. After all no one gets bored like she does and boredom was often the reason why people drank.

The club proved to be an interesting arena: people were shrouded in blinding lights and painful thumps of the speakers. Not to mention the fact that many people were dressed in a way to show everyone someone they were not. Someone happier, sexier, funnier than the real them. The people were dull, but deducing their lives had a new challenge.

That wasn't what made her keep going back, though. It wasn't what she remembered first about that night, or any other night in a club or at a party. What she remembered was the drugs.

They made her focus - albeit sometimes too much - on her senses, allowing her to unhinge herself from deliberate logical thought when she wanted and to just _feel_ and not care and live unburdened. It didn't really matter what the drug was, as long as it was a stimulant and safe; she wasn't an idiot just yet.

Drugs were in steady supply for a large part of her life, but slowly she could feel her body become dependent. Her body stopped producing dopamine now that the drugs gave her a high and an alternative source. That, along with her mental craving and need for the constant relief, was what gave Sherlock the withdrawal symptoms.

Everyday she would assess the costs and benefits; costs becoming less important as the days went on despite the withdrawal symptoms that settled in after only a few hours.

She knew when she'd hit her limit and when logic slowly began to be tampered with.

Mycroft approached her with an offer for rehab and she didn't refuse. She wanted to deal with her boredom, to self medicate away the pain, not lose control of her mind.

Twenty six and one year clean - if one ignored nicotine, caffeine and adrenaline - Sherlock slowly began building up an image of a career. Detective work allowed her to have a focus for her mind in two ways: in the initial observation she could use her senses to understand the crime scene, then the deduction showed her the plot and puzzle - the narrative of the crime laid bare in her mind.

Detective Inspector Gregson was surprisingly helpful and took her under his wing, so to speak. Of course Sherlock was always ten steps ahead of him, but he let her into the crime scenes so that was by the by. He told her it was an informal apprenticeship and she did learn through experience, so she never complained too much.

He retired one year later and Lestrade took his place. Unfortunately Lestrade had been more wary about her, especially considering he was only promoted a week before she tried to get inside one of his crime scenes.

Without crime to keep her occupied Sherlock turned to her study. She read novels, textbooks, journals, internet columns: anything that gave her a history of crime and techniques used. History did tend to repeat itself, after all. Studying books eventually grew dull so she turned to the practical side of things to fill in gaps of information in her mind. She experimented on anything and everything she could think of that may have a hand in unravelling someone's murder.

It was early spring and she'd been in Hyde park collecting data when it happened. Four legs, sharp teeth and a stump of a tail attacked her ankle with all the evil the little pup could muster. The owner of the mutt introduced himself as _"-So sorry!"_ then again later as _"-Victor. Are you sure you don't need more ice?"_

Victor also introduced her to private detective work and the title Consulting Detective was born. She'd made her first friend that day and in the end it was worth the bruised ankle.

Victor was the only person she ever told the story about her battle with boredom in full. From comfort to loneliness to drugs. She could never understand how he could listen and not say: _"Can't you just try a bit harder?"_ or _"You're acting like a child, surely it's not that bad."_ Instead, he told her to come and find him whenever she felt the boredom creeping in. At first she was sceptical (What could he think up that she couldn't?) but she sought him out anyway.

They experimented together using both Mycroft's and her parent's methods. He even combined them: shutting them in the dark where he would hold her in an unchanging embrace. But nothing worked as well as sensory deprivation in the end. She speculated whether that was because she rejected any kind of sentiment, so unconsciously didn't want the hugs to work.

Darkness was always a must; Sherlock's eyes were her everything and her main receptor of information. Just to make sure, Sherlock made Victor blindfold her as well as shutter the room into the dark.

Her next main information receptor was sound. She could pick out from Victor what he had for lunch from sound. But apparently that would be 'cheating' anyway because she knew his favourite meals and his habits. They bought a pair of headphones, dark and padded enough to keep her comfortable. Headphones alone only blocked out some sound (the sound of the bus driving past that was carrying way over its limit in people still crept through) so they moved onto music. Chopin ended up being the one she could fixate on the most. Bach only made her try and understand each note and it's subtext and context, looking for details. It took a whole hour to discern the correct volume that was not too little or too much.

Then came taste, smell and touch.

Taste was relatively easy. First they tried overwhelming her with spice or sweetness, but the taste eventually faded and she began measuring the results. So they turned to a palette cleanser and that did the job nicely.

Smell ranged from blocking or covering her nose - far too uncomfortable - to the more successful overpowering of the sense. A rub of something like olbas oil cleared her sinuses and her mind.

If she could touch something new to her, she would try to deduce all the details it held.

If it was something old and something she knew, her mind would still fix on it, but there would be less chance of her getting pummelled by new information.

Sherlock was welcomed into Victor's flat to deduce everything she could about the bed and the bed alone through touch. Then she could have her treatment at home or at Victor's. She would strip, don her blindfold and headphones, lie back and let herself sink into the music. She asked him after a while to restrict her hands from moving. She found she liked to touch her hair, the headphones, the bedside table, anything that gave her more familiar but still unwanted information.

The trick was finding the right balance in all her senses. Which ones to cut off, which ones to feed so she could concentrate on that one stream of information. And after they finished experimenting, the technique still worked. She would be soothed, sometimes to the point of sleeping, then wake feeling fresh and strong, ready to cope and block errant information.

Victor left to move to France (Or was it Germany?) and invited Sherlock to come. She refused; London was her home, her adventure. Sherlock realised the frailty of their relationship when he told her he couldn't stay like she wanted him to. Every conversation, touch, look, a delicate snowflake. She mourned the loss of him in her life, kept smoking, kept using their Golden Method and finally convinced Detective Inspector Lestrade to stop being a coward and let her into the investigations.

It was always easy to use the Golden Method - she couldn't stop herself from using his words, despite the sentiment - when she lived alone. There was always the risk Mycroft would descend, but now the drugs were out there was less chance of him popping up unexpectedly.

Moving into Baker Street brought her a flatmate and a new friend in someone who would literally kill for her and die for her. However, the irritating thing about Jane was that other than her shift at the surgery, she rarely left the flat. So when Sherlock got bored and Jane was still around, she couldn't use her Golden Method in case she was caught and scared Jane away.

Mycroft would say that it was unlike her to merit a person's company over her own comfort. Victor would understand that Jane's company directly caused Sherlock comfort. However much Mycroft claimed to know his little sister he was far too blinded by his perception that she was entirely like him: dismissive of companionship. Just knowing that there was someone in the world who understood her better than Mycroft thought he did always brought a smile to her lips.

The first time she had an episode while living with Jane, Sherlock was able to play it off as fever irritability and catatonia caused by a bout of flu from 'falling' into the Thames. Jane believed her, but what else was she supposed to think?

"Let me take your temperature," Jane had said, forever the army doctor.

"I am perfectly capable of examining my own symptoms, eliminating variables, and coming up with a sound diagnosis, doctor. Thank you," Sherlock sneered in reply, turning over with a huff and burrowing in her duvet.

"Well at least get off the kitchen table!" She remembered Jane shouting, but she was surrounded in a fog of data and her tongue wouldn't work so she never replied.

Every now and then Sherlock was lucky and Jane was working or at one of her suitor's homes when the storm hit and Sherlock could deal with her mind alone.

Everything was secure: Jane wasn't leaving, Sherlock occasionally got some relief and she had a case once or more every week.

Only it turned out occasional relief still wasn't enough and Sherlock had gotten tired of this particular episode and that made her risky. It was a similar feeling that pushed her to follow that rowdy group to the club and drink and get high until morning.

The flat was loud and colourful. Data about cases and experiments screeching at her and information about Jane forced it's way through her temples. Her blood pounded so hard her vision throbbed to the beat. _Too much, too much!_

She estimated roughly that she had an hour before Jane would come back from Tesco. Sherlock scrawled out a note to not be disturbed for the rest of the evening and staggered into her bedroom.

She heaved the shoe box containing her equipment onto her bed, whimpering in frustration, the stream of deductions making her ears ring.

Tying up her hands was understandably more difficult when she had to handle episodes alone. Victor artfully tied the rope around her chest and arms to bind them against her back. All she could do alone was wrap the rope around the headboard, slip her hands into two loops at the end and pull until the rope closed around her wrists. It wasn't unlike two miniature nooses for her hands. It caused some redness, but that was no matter when most of her wardrobe involved long sleeves and a big coat.

Silence filled the room. Calm finally swelled through her in a gush, cutting short the webbed tangle of chaotic thought.

She was in her Mind Palace, deleting and compartmentalising. Her feet moved back and forth over the soft cool sheets of the bed happily, content as she walked through the corridors of her brain; toes curling when she dug them into the soft carpets of her Palace.

Another thirty minutes of this Golden Method and she would be completely balanced again.

*

Meanwhile Jane Watson was not having the best of days either. Her flatmate (and apparently best friend, although she was beginning to rethink that) had had the gall to not only keep her awake the night before, but tell her she asked for it! And then to top it off, she fed all their food to domestic rats that she then decided to keep in the airing cupboard after turning the boiler off!

"I didn't know you'd be needing it," the apparent genius (Jane was rethinking this too) had said three times that morning. Once each for the lack of sleep, food, and hot water.

Thankfully the walk to the shops had calmed Jane a little and upon returning to the flat her flatmate was nowhere to be seen. She put away the food in peace and mused upon the benefits of buying herself a mini fridge for her room or maybe one for Sherlock to put her experiments in. Would a head fit inside a mini fridge?

Deciding to treat herself and watch some telly in peace, Jane settled down on the sofa with the biggest cup of tea she could find. Only then did she see the strange wiggle on the notepad on the coffee table.

The writing was definitely Sherlock's, but Jane couldn't make heads or tales of what it said. Maybe it was for a case. Was that where Sherlock was now?

_'I know I'm angry at you, but you might have told me there's a case. - JW'_

She sent the text to Sherlock, only to hear the polite _Ping!_ of the alert sound across the room. So chances were Sherlock was still in the flat if she didn't have her phone with her.

"You're not doing that 'modern disguise' thing again, are you?" Jane asked the room, awkwardness palpable in the silence. She turned, looking from the fireplace to the kitchen to see if there was an outline of a body hidden in the wall paper. Only then did she notice what she should have noticed before: Sherlock's door was shut.

That could mean several things, but the most likely one was that Sherlock was experimenting. Probably with a rat.

Angry, Jane marched through the kitchen and banged on Sherlock's door, calling her name.

"Sherlock!" Silence met her ears again.

Frustrated, Jane pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. She tried knocking again, her hand on the handle of the door, pressing down.

"Sherlock?" She called, the detective's bedroom dark through the crack of the door. No rats then, but she couldn't be asleep at this hour. Then again, it was Sherlock. Surely she wasn't ill, or worse...

Jane opened the door and flicked the light on. She gasped at the sight of her friend and almost jumped back in shock, standing stock still instead.

Sherlock was artfully spread on the covers looking like a fey statue, utterly naked aside from a pair of headphones, a blindfold, and rope around her arms. Her chest was moving up and down with her breaths and she didn't seem to be affected by any sort of drug that Jane could see from this distance. _Thank god._

The room smelled strongly of roses and lime, to a point that Jane thought she might have to cover her mouth and nose to prevent her lungs from burning and eyes watering.

Sherlock looked utterly serene despite the heavy smell. Her face was relaxed, as were her bound arms, and her legs were stroking back and forth in small kicking motions every now and then over the sheets.

Had Sherlock done this deliberately? To what end? Was Jane supposed to see?

The doctor certainly felt like she had intruded, so she dimmed the light once more and closed the door, assuming her friend didn't want to be disturbed.

Maybe it was for a case.

*

Losing track of time, Sherlock roused herself just over two hours after going under, feeling much more refreshed.

Her wrists didn't burn, so that was a plus too: occasionally she would be more active in her trance and would tug too hard on the ropes. She was able to shower and wash off all the rose oil from around her nose too. Then she disposed of the limes that she'd sucked the juice from, before opening her bedroom window to let fresh air and fresh data in. Now her senses were no longer in overdrive she could filter out the useless things and command the attention of her own mind.

She dressed in all things cotton and comfy then went into the kitchen to make coffee. Chewing on a slice of bread, she noticed traces of Jane's presence and began to track her movements from her leaving for the shops to the present, settled where she was in front of the television.

Jane had obviously found all she was looking for at the shops, as the carrier bags were put away. If she was annoyed or unsatisfied she would leave them on the table.

The cup (that was more like a bucket, Sherlock noted) by the sink had a line of residue near the top, indicating that Jane had left it after she made it until it cooled, then made another that she was currently drinking from this minute.

Sherlock's note had moved from the coffee table, but even this far away she could see that the writing was unintelligible to most humans.

Results: Jane had been distracted enough to forget her tea and was not aware she wanted to be alone.

This was risky; if Jane had seen her she would need to carefully manipulate the conversation to put herself in a favourable light so that Jane wouldn't get scared.

"Are you going to sit down or hover in the doorway all night, Sherlock?"

*

Sherlock looked like a startled rabbit when Jane turned. At least she was a dressed startled rabbit now. Despite what she promised herself, she could still imagine Sherlock's self bondage.

Where had she learned to do that? Was it sexual? Something woke inside Jane when she thought of those questions.

Sherlock had always made herself out to be without sexual attractions (but in no way scared of the topic of sex): she insisted that the 'Woman Incident' was stimulating mentally, not sexually. For Jane to learn that perhaps Sherlock did do sexual things made her feel greedy and made her want to know more. Questions upon questions boggled her mind, but she kept quiet because even though sex might not alarm Sherlock Holmes, she looked undeniably alarmed right now.

"You can have the remote, if you want." Jane offered, holding up the gadget. Sherlock normally took the damn thing anyway. Sometimes she was sneaky about it and Jane never noticed that the channel had even been changed, but others she would outright switch it to a French channel that Jane didn't even know they had access to.

The smell of roses still clung to Sherlock as the woman sat next to her, arms wrapped around her knees in a compact ball. She took the remote after a second of consideration and when she did the moment was strangely reverent. Jane smiled and turned back to watch the telly with unseeing eyes.

Did Sherlock know that Jane had seen her? She probably did and deduced it somehow. Jane felt the sudden need to confess and opened her mouth to speak.

"Um, so is there something you want-"

"Did you know honey bees are almost the only bees-"

Simultaneously they turned to look at each other after speaking over one another and Jane cracked a smile. Soon they were giggling and couldn't stop.

"Wh-What were you g-going to say?" Jane asked, trying to discreetly wipe the tears at the corners of her eyes.

"Honey bees are almost the only bees with hairy compound eyes." Sherlock replied, her grin wide, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I keep telling you we're not getting bees!" Jane laughed, grabbing Sherlock's ankles and pulling her feet onto her lap, where they usually were whenever they sat like this. "You can tell me all the bee facts in the world, but Mrs Hudson won't allow it. Plus where would we keep them?"

"The airing cupboard," Sherlock replied, and Jane could have sworn she only said that to make her laugh until her sides hurt, because that was exactly what she did.

*

They didn't speak about it, but there was an unspoken understanding that Jane had seen Sherlock and was fine with it. Whatever 'it' was. Sometimes Jane got curious, but never brought herself to ask her questions, unsure of the boundary when it came to this. And it was quite nice to have a mystery that hopefully wasn't life threatening for once.

After Sherlock disappearing into her bedroom and closing the door (Jane decided that closed door meant keep out; a door a pull away from being shut was go away; a door half open was a less severe go away; and a door completely open was the norm. Keep out meant Sherlock was doing her little ritual thing, the next two were study or experiments, and the last was any other time of day.) five more times over the next month Jane began to see a pattern.

It was usually after a case that was less than a 7 on Sherlock's arbitrary rating scale of how interesting a case was, but before the next case. It didn't seem to matter yet whether there were experiments around the flat or not.

Jane couldn't help think it was sexual. As a doctor, she approved. It was good for the body to release energy, especially after stressful work like solving murders. It made sense for Sherlock to do it between cases so it wouldn't interrupt her thinking time, unless the last case was particularly interesting and needed more thought.

Once, after work, Jane had completely forgotten about the 'no entry' rule and walked straight into Sherlock's room after knocking, a plate of curry in her free hand. In her defense she had been tired.

She'd licked her lips nervously and wavered between leaving the curry in the bedroom for Sherlock to eat once she was finished, or leave it out to be reheated later. She took a chance and put the plate onto the bedside table, deciding it was more likely to be eaten if it was right in front of her.

“Jane,” Sherlock murmured, soft but clear in the otherwise quiet room. She must have felt her brush past the sheets.

“Sorry, Sherlock, I just-” she began, only to realise Sherlock couldn’t hear her. Up close like this Jane could see the flush of her cheeks and wetness around her lips and nose that shone in the dim light of the room. Her chest rose and fell as a soothing pace, not hitched in arousal like she imagined.

Jane reached out, the backs of her fingers skating across the smooth material of Sherlock’s pillow to touch her hand softly. Her fingers were cool against her own, limp in the warm palm of Jane’s hand. She brushed her thumb over the backs of Sherlock’s fingers, wanting to tell her _something._ She just didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

Sherlock’s fingers began tracing Jane’s palm, but it wasn’t affectionate, it was too precise for that. Like she was looking for something. Then her fingers went limp again and Jane’s hand slipped away, her little finger brushing past Sherlock’s curls. She felt breathless.

*

“No, no, no. That’s not fair, you aren’t allowed to ask things.”

“Why on Earth not?”

“‘Cause you know _everything_.”

“Your- um… faith, in my powers of deduction is…”

“Flattering?”

Sherlock laughed, crossing her long legs and slumping in her chair until her chin met her chest. Getting Sherlock Holmes tipsy was one of Jane’s best ideas. After a gruelling day of paperwork all she wanted to do was go out to the pub and watch whatever match was on the telly. To her surprise when she got home there was already beer in the fridge.

Sherlock always had a funny relationship with alcohol from what Jane could judge. She didn’t like it because it slowed the mind, but she occasionally drank whiskey, only ever drank wine if it was for a case (although never touched the expensive bottles in the cupboard that were gifts from various clients or Mycroft) and declared beer a waste of time. Sometimes there was vodka about the flat, but that was only ever used for experiments. Jane could only guess what the beer in the fridge was for her. She checked first; not wanting to be drugged or poisoned, then invited Sherlock to join.

Drunk Sherlock was amusing because even without all her mental faculties she was determined to get answers about whatever subject popped into her head and pestered Jane until she answered. Jane assumed that normally Sherlock could just look and deduce and there her answers were, and without logical thought she couldn’t do that so resorted to questioning. Sherlock drunk was also looser with her body and words, leading to some rather amusing conversation.

“Sherlock,” Jane laughed, kicking the woman’s foot gently when it seemed she was about to drop off. Sherlock probably hadn’t slept since last week. “Wake up, I want to ask one.”

Sherlock leaned forwards, eyes narrowed as she seemingly assessed Jane before she sat up straight again, the picture of attentiveness. She inclined her head. “Please, do go on.”

“You’re crap at acting sober,” Jane snorted, humming for a few moments in thought. She laughed and pointed a finger at Sherlock. “Come on, then: Who was your first _shag_?”

“Ann Summers.”

“That’s a shop! Quite a racy shop, I might add...”

“Is it? Fine. Geoffrey Norton.”

“That’s mine!”

“Um… Billy?” Sherlock asked, waving her hand in the vague direction of the skull on the mantelpiece.

“I might have believed you if he hadn’t been dead for a billion years,” Jane said, grinning at Sherlock. She kicked her ankles gently again, Sherlock’s long legs really did take up too much room.

“You always _exaggerate_ things, you are the _epitome_ of the… People who exaggerate. You are their _leader_.” Sherlock stressed, smiling lazily and linking her fingers together over her stomach. “Captain Jane H. Watson. What is the H?”

“I said you don’t get to ask questions,” Jane laughed, finishing her beer through her giggles.

They woke with headaches the next morning, slumped together on the sofa, moaning about who was to blame for their hangovers.

Jane may not have learned much from the game they played the night before, but she did learn in the morning that Sherlock’s omelettes cured a hangover like nothing else in the natural world could.

*

“I told you to take up fishing, not sleep with her. At least not for another month; I lost twenty quid.” Said Sally Donovan, pressing a steaming cup of coffee into Jane’s hand while they waited for Lestrade to finish squeezing the details about the case from Sherlock.

“You could try not betting on the details of mine and Sherlock’s friendship. Anyway, we aren’t sleeping together.” Jane replied, taking the coffee gratefully. She leaned back against the wall and looked up at Sally. “Who told you we were?”

“No one said, it was just obvious. You two have always had a weird chemistry, but today you seem very… Post-shag,” Sally explained, looking into the crowd of people in the crime scene. “Greg owes me my money back. Try not to shag until next month, alright? See you later.”

Jane laughed, not surprised that there was a bet going. When she brought it up later with Sherlock she shrugged it off. Apparently she’d known from the beginning.

*

Pasta was one of Jane’s favourite foods, and she’d been making it purposefully to treat herself and Sherlock when Mycroft decided to pop by for a visit a few weeks later.

“She’s busy,” Jane said, placing a plate in front of Mycroft after insisting he stayed for tea. Not out of her own good will, but just to make him squirm. It was fun having power over the man who was ‘practically British government’.

“Dealing with an episode, I take it?” Mycroft replied, holding their cheap cutlery with such elegance Jane almost thought she were a royal. She sat and stabbed at pasta and melting cheese while Mycroft ate with much more grace.

“What do you mean ‘episode’?” Jane asked, taking a sip of water and licking her lips, missing the little stains of orange at the corners completely.

“What he means is ‘this meal is very nice, thank you, Doctor Watson.’” Sherlock said, walking into the kitchen in her usual pyjama clothes that she wore after disappearing into her room and closing the door. She took the third portion of pasta and sat upon the worktop, legs crossed as she ate with even less class than Jane.

“I see you have continued to use the method of coping taught to you by the late Mr Trevor,” Mycroft replied, seeming bored with Sherlock’s presence. Jane watched Sherlock look up with a puzzled frown, before an expression Jane never expected to see on Sherlock’s face settled, and then passed like a transient ghost.

“Oh.” Sherlock said, and the moment was forgotten. “Did you have a reason to be here, brother mine?”

“A matter of importance and delicacy has arisen and your help is required.”

“No business talk over dinner,” Jane replied sternly. She watched as Mycroft turned his attention back to his food and sent Sherlock a sneaky wink. She received a grin in reply and she almost choked on the pasta in an attempt to stifle her laughter.

*

“Will we ever talk about it?” Jane had asked, sewing up Sherlock’s side after being sliced by an American assassin.

Sherlock knew exactly what Jane was referring to, how could she not? She considered herself lucky for getting away with months of practicing her Golden Method and not having to explain herself.

Did she owe it to Jane to explain? Jane had been surprisingly generous about the whole thing, allowing her to go off and be alone for a few hours without explanation. Only twice had she walked in. The first time Sherlock didn’t even realise until after and the second Jane had brought her curry, so no harm was done.

She hissed, flinching on the bed as Jane touched a particularly sensitive spot. A warm hand covered her hip and she settled again, knowing it would be better to stay still.

“Do we need to talk about it?” She asked in reply, propping her head on her hand, held up by her elbow rooted to the bed.

“No, I mean it’s fine… And if it’s a private thing then that’s all you. You don’t need to tell me,” Jane said, waving her free hand a little awkwardly as though it helped her be more coherent.

“My mind rebels at stagnation,” She began, shuffling back on the bed and pulling her top down now that she wasn’t at risk of losing all her blood. As though they were magnets, Jane followed and sat beside her, looking down at her curiously. “When my mind has nothing to focus on, everything floods me with data. I know you feel my ‘speeches’ at crime scenes of my deductions are amazing but draining. Constantly and on the most minute of details, it can become very painful.”

“So you… Block out information?” Jane asked, slouching until she was lying beside Sherlock, brows furrowed in confusion. Sherlock could see Jane’s mind working, fitting the pieces of information together, and clarity finally smoothed Jane’s expression. “That makes sense.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Sherlock murmured dryly, a smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “You thought it was sexual. Are you relieved that you’ve not been walking in on some obscure form of masturbation?”

Jane choked on air and thwacked Sherlock on the arm. “What have I said about keeping those sorts of deductions to ourselves?”

“I’ve honestly no idea; I must have deleted it.” Sherlock said with a snort, carefully rolling onto her front. “I suppose it would be arousing in a sexual context - absolute trust in a partner is often risky, but rewarding - but the sensory deprivation alone isn’t particularly stimulating. That is rather the point, after all. Do you want to feed me?"

"Do I- What?"

"Feed me." Sherlock repeated, rolling her eyes. "You always insist on trying to feed me. You know just because you don't notice when I eat doesn't mean I don't eat. Anyway, I'm hungry. Feed me."

"I hope you don't mean-"

"-No, I don't mean put the food in my mouth. Unless that's what you want. It does give me the advantage of not having to bother with the effort."

Five minutes later Jane returned with toast and Sherlock picked at it, feeling content.

"You know I told you about Sally and that bet?" Jane asked, licking her upper lip nervously. Sherlock hummed in reply, unsure why Jane thought they needed the conversation on repeat.

"Sally thought that we'd have got together by now."

"Are you bothered by this?" Sherlock asked, covering her mouth as she chewed. "I'm sure I could get them to stop if you are uncomfortable. I don't need my blogger distracted."

"No, that's alright, I doubt anything will stop them. It's just she thought we'd be together by now and everyone thought that we actually were, you know, shagging when we went to the crime scene with the doodles on the walls."

"They weren't doodles they were a cypher," Sherlock said impatiently, before she brushed crumbs from her fingertips and raised a knowing brow at Jane. "Are you trying to rope me into a 'meaningful conversation'?"

"No! Well yes, I guess, but you should just tell me to shut up because I don't know what I'm trying to say." Jane said, smiling but looking a bit hopeless.

"A mystery, is it?" Sherlock teased. Her side felt tight as she twisted to put the plate on the bedside table. "That only encourages me to investigate further, my dear Jane."

"Oh god, you only call me that when you're excited." Jane groaned, laughing more freely now. "Stop, stop!"

"Now let's see... Data, data," Sherlock hummed, glancing over Jane from head to toe. "Are you trying to glare at me? I don't think you're doing right." She laughed, eyes glittering with her mirth.

"Stop it, you great twit." Jane giggled again, kicking at Sherlock's long legs. "I'm not allowed to shut you up when you're hurt so you aren't allowed to provoke me."

"I'm doing so such thing." She replied, but settled down again anyway. "Are you upset because Sally is currently losing money? Or because your gambler heart wants you to put some money into the pot? I wouldn't worry about the latter, we can split the money when I win."

"You put a bet in?! What did you bet?" Jane shouted, alarmed. Sherlock could see her mind working in panic: Did _everyone_ think she and Sherlock should have sex? Or did Sherlock bet that they wouldn't? Would Sherlock manipulate her into bed just to get money?

"Get your own bet," Sherlock sniffed defensively. "And stop thinking so loudly."

"A person can't think loudly! Whether you're mentally whispering or shouting, your inner voice is the same bloody 'volume'! And anyway it shouldn't matter to you, because you're not a mind reader." Replied the incredulous doctor. She was sent a withering look from her flatmate.

"You brought up the matter in the first place." Sherlock said, thoughtful again now. Jane was comfortable enough to bring up the topic of conversation with her, despite her uncertain feelings towards what she was trying to convey. Perhaps that was the problem itself: Jane was subconsciously afraid of becoming too open or comfortable with her.

"I said it didn't matter. Do you want tea?"

It was an odd thought. Jane had always believed Sherlock knew near everything about her, so why be shy of all things now? Pure speculation led Sherlock to believe that, again subconsciously, Jane had something to hide. Maybe she thought her Golden Method erotic and wanted to explore more, using the excuse of the bet between the Yarders to bring up the topic.

There wasn't enough data.

*

All the talk of sexual activity the day before had turned something on inside Sherlock and now her mind rarely strayed far from the topic of sex. She was occupied, at least, so didn't resort to going outside to bee hunt.

Jane had seen her naked a handful of times, but Sherlock had only the pleasure of seeing snippets, so she could deduce the rest to make a whole. Measurements and curves were easy, but what she wanted to know what were the details. And how her body worked: how it moved, what it responded to. Not to mention the texture and the taste. It wasn't necessarily sexual - she'd thought over this before - but now she was sexually charged each new thought only made her want to squirm and track Jane down so she could get the answers to her questions.

She slowly rolled onto her front on the sofa, wishing her side was healed already so that her body didn't ache with each imprecise movement. She closed her eyes and cursed the human hormonal system from morning until Jane returned from work.

*

"The green or the blue dress?" Jane called down from her bedroom to Sherlock, who was petulantly plucking at the strings of her violin in her leather chair.

She'd forgotten where Jane was going. Only she remembered that with Jane gone she couldn't look at her or hear her anymore.

"Hate the green. Where are you going again?" Sherlock drawled.

"What?"

"Where are you going?" She repeated a little louder, tone clipped sharp.

"I've told you six times already! Out with Greg.” Sherlock opened her mouth to speak. “ _Lestrade?_ We're getting pints and watching the footie.”

Shower. Dress. Appropriate amount of time left to do hair _and_ makeup. Sherlock pulled a face, something thick and poisonous churning in her chest.

“You can’t go out with Lestrade!”

“You can’t manage me, Sherlock!” Came Jane’s, far too cheery for Sherlock’s liking, reply. Sherlock snarled and stomped up the stairs, abandoning her violin in her chair.

“It will ruin the work. I can’t have you and him filling the place with annoying looks of sentiment when I’m thinking. No; you can’t have sex with him.”

“Sherlock,” Jane said, arms folding in impatience. “I’m going with Lestrade as mates. We’re going to drink, watch telly, then go home separately.”

“But you could do all that here! Why go out if it isn’t to shag him or another stray idiot you pick up while you’re out?” Sherlock whined, gliding into the room and collapsing stubbornly on Jane’s bed.

“Maybe because you won’t let Greg in the flat unless it’s for a case? Or because I like getting out of the flat?” Jane drawled, turning back to her mirror to continue brushing her hair.

“You get out of the flat plenty.”

“I go to work and go on cases with you - which is basically work. It’s different.”

“Can I come?”

“No?”

“What, why?”

“Because, Sherlock.” Jane snapped, turning around and roughly brushing out a tangle. “You only want to come to prove some sort of point which will be forgotten between now and the time we arrive at the pub, where you will then begin to declare to the world how boring and stupid everyone else is but you. You won’t enjoy yourself and you’ll stop me and Greg having fun too.”

“You don’t know any of that would happen.” Sherlock said huffily.

“It’s happened before! You just don’t remember because you deleted it because you were so bored!” Jane laughed hysterically. “Look, if I convince Greg - _Lestrade_ \- to let you on the next case you want in on, but he normally wouldn’t let you on, you have to promise that you won’t ever suggest that me and Greg might shag again. And you don’t complain for the rest of the evening.”

“Deal.”

Jane narrowed her eyes at the other woman, not believing her for one second.

Sherlock visibly caved in. “Lestrade will eventually need my help in the end anyway, so your offer is null. Can’t you stay? I’m bored,” She said, dragging out the last word for as long as her breath could sustain her.

Jane raised a brow. “Are you quite done? I’ll be back by ten, it’s only a few hours. You’ve gone longer without me being here. Remember when I was gone for a weekend and you didn’t notice?”

“Yes, but I’m noticing now, Jane.” Sherlock sighed as though she thought Jane was an idiot for not knowing that already. Sherlock made a soft noise of dissatisfaction in the back of her throat and moved to bodily drape herself around Jane.

“Christ, you’re heavy. At least we know you’ve been eating.” Jane said, poking Sherlock in the side with a dry smile. “Let me go out and I’ll be a subject for one of your little ‘social experiments’. That I choose, though: I want informed consent and the right to withdraw.”

Sherlock scrunched up her nose and considered this deal for a little longer. “Can we get bees?”

“No.” Said Jane sternly, mirth dancing in her eyes.

Sighing, Sherlock pulled away from Jane. “You can’t blame me for trying. Fine, I’ll have a list for you to choose from by the time you come back.”

“I can’t wait,” Jane replied. Sherlock thought she heard regret in Jane’s voice already.

*

“I’m pretty sure half of these are illegal, Sherlock.” Jane said, sitting with Sherlock’s feet in her lap while a film she’d forgotten the name of played on the telly in front of them. Whenever she looked up she saw kissing or crying, which confused her to her very core because Sherlock had chosen the film. She dragged her eyes from the telly and back to the notepad she’d been given.

Sherlock only shrugged in response and rubbed at her temples, a grumpy frown between her brows.

“Hey, are you alright? Do you want some ibuprofen?” Jane asked, squeezing Sherlock’s ankle gently.

“Won’t work,” Sherlock moaned, letting her head drop back in a overly dramatic fashion.

“Oh, is it an episode coming on?”

Another moan.

“Do you want me to carry you to bed?”

A nod.

“Come on then, you great lump.” Jane said fondly, shifting to bring Sherlock into her arms in a way that she could carry her the distance between the sofa, through the kitchen, and onto Sherlock’s bed.

“I’ll let you do your thing. Call if you need me, alright?” She said once Sherlock was settled on the bed.

“No, stay. Stay.” Sherlock repeated, her long fingers making grabbing gestures in Jane’s direction. She groaned, back arching and eyes squeezing shut tightly. “Close the window, for god’s sake. And turn off the lights!”

Jane hastened to comply with efficiency that rivalled the way she cleaned her gun. She heard shifting and the hiss of cloth and skin, then the rustle of the sheets. “Do you still need me?” She asked, feeling a little awkward standing in the dark in the middle of Sherlock’s room. Thankfully Sherlock’s room was quite tidy, so if she needed to move she would be able to navigate her way out quickly.

“Shut door,” replied Sherlock, pained. “C’mere.”

Slowly - now knowing how sensitive Sherlock was when she got like this - Jane sat on Sherlock’s bed and lowered herself into a supine position, before turning on her side to face Sherlock. She squinted in the dark. Unable to see much more than a bulge in the sheets and a vague shape of curls, Jane decided to stay quiet and stay put.

Inch by inch, Sherlock shifted closer until her side pressed against Jane’s. She groaned and turned on her side so they were effectively spooned, only the sheet and Jane’s clothes between them.

“Talk.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. There was a pause where Jane floundered for words, mouth opening and closing dumbly. “Afghanistan.”

Jane probably spoke more about her life in Afghanistan and her lives pre and post Afghanistan in that evening than she ever had with any therapist. She told Sherlock of the boring things, random details that Sherlock would find interesting. She went into as much detail as she could, fully aware that if Sherlock was capable she would have been asking questions.

Her mouth felt dry and throat sore, but Sherlock was no longer making whimpering sounds that tugged at Jane's heart strings, so it was worth it. Unlike when she was drunk, Sherlock's incoherency wasn't funny at all. She had wrapped her arm around Sherlock's middle at some point during the tale, and spoke into her shoulder, keeping them close together bodily and emotionally.

Sherlock was quiet and Jane thought she must have fallen asleep. She appeared to doze in and out of consciousness when she had been talking, but now that she was finished she was silent.

Jane pressed her nose into the curls covering the pillow, inhaling deeply as the weight of exhaustion began to drag her eyes shut.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." She murmured, the last tendrils of her mind clinging to consciousness finally parting one by one until she was deep asleep.

*

Jane was suffocating, she was sure of it. She was overheating, gasping for breath; god, had Sherlock smothered her in the night?

“You are the most dramatic person I’ve ever had the delight to meet. Including myself.” Sherlock’s amused tones cut through the stuffy atmosphere clouding Jane’s mind. The doctor opened her eyes and looked up to see Sherlock sitting upon her hips.

“How long’ve you been watching me?” Jane slurred, rubbing at her eyes tiredly.

“Not long,” Sherlock replied, glancing at the clock with a shrug. Her eyes seemed to be brighter this morning, though it may have been the reflection of the sun that was currently trying to blind Jane. Hadn’t she closed the curtains?

“Enough time to make a decent breakfast, I bet. I’d be surprised if you actually made any, lazy git. Why are you on my lap?”

“Because you’re the most brilliant person in the world.” Sherlock replied, her eyes sharp as she watched Jane. “Actually no, I’ve misspoke. You make the world a better place.”

Jane put her first and second fingers to either side of Sherlock’s Adams apple, then touched the back of her hand to her forehead, only for it to be slapped away.

“My mind is not malfunctioning from some cold, Jane. I don’t get colds, do keep up.” Sherlock snapped. She visibly made her features relax again, waiting patiently for Jane to string two words together.

“Alright…” She said, rather dubiously. “And why are you saying that now?”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it? Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock held up her phone.

On it read _‘50 ways to show gratitude. 10. Look them straight in the eyes and say,_ “You make the world a better place.”’

“No, you did it fine, Sherlock.” Jane reassured, quite bemused by the whole thing. “Most people don’t do it while keeping their friend hostage, but it wouldn’t be you without a little hostage situation somewhere along the line.”

“You’re so funny,” Sherlock drawled, moving to put her palms flat against the bed either side of Jane’s shoulders, trapping her more effectively. “For years I suffered through episodes alone, I didn’t believe company would be a successful alternative to the Golden Method. However my hypothesis must be rejected, as you proved to be a good coping method.”

“I asked you to tell me before you experimented on me,” Jane said sternly, though she softened as the words sunk in.

“I saw an opportunity so I took it,” Sherlock replied with a shrug, then pressed her lips to Jane’s. The kiss was warm; Jane’s body still hot against hers from sleep. Sherlock’s moves were sure her breath was shallow, as though she didn’t want to be an imposition. They parted, a soft wet sound filling the room, a feeling of acceptance settling in Sherlock's heart.

Obviously Jane’s face must have been amusing, because Sherlock laughed and rolled off Jane.

“Hey! Wait, wait!” Jane said, grabbing Sherlock’s slender wrist as she was shocked back into action. “You can’t just kiss me and leave. What was that all about!?”

“The website said to give ‘an intimate hug’,” Sherlock replied, flopping back down on the bed again, long legs dangling over the side.

“That wasn’t an intimate hug, Sherlock.” Jane pointed out, sitting up.

“Semantics,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “You want to do it again.” She reached her waving hand out towards Jane, pulling her down until Jane was forced to brace herself in a mirror of the position Sherlock had been in before. There was hesitation in Jane’s features, and so many questions Sherlock could barely keep up, but no words were said and their mouths touched again. This time their tongues traced lips, bumping in the wet heat of their mouths. Jane tasted coffee on Sherlock’s tongue and her lips twitched in a smile.

“Git,” She whispered, deepening the kiss. She threaded her fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Her thumb traced her cheekbone, callouses and cracks against flawless pink. With Sherlock it had always been easier to do first and ask questions later.

*

Questions were never asked later, but the kisses continued. Occasionally Sherlock would look up from her laptop, or her microscope, or casefile, stare at Jane hard, then pull her into a kiss. Jane hadn’t been counting, but what she did remember was that they hadn’t all been soft and near-platonic as the first had been.

She could guess that Sherlock enjoyed kissing, because it was mostly her that sought it out. That wasn’t any conscious desire on Jane’s part to hold back - she was sure that Sherlock would inform her all the many ways she wasn’t a delicate flower if she ever did think like that - but because it hadn’t been an option before, it took some time getting used to the idea that kissing was something they just did now.

Whenever there was a slump in cases and there was a threat of Sherlock growing restless, Jane would try to help prevent the onset of an episode. Apparently Sherlock had never thought to do that before. It was difficult, but they were able to make a warning scale similar to Sherlock’s rating scale of the cases. 10 meant a good (horrific) case, and 10 also signalled an especially bad day in Sherlock’s mind. If it got anywhere over 5 they would combine bugging Lestrade for cases with the violin, or with kissing, or with just simply lying together in a darkened room.

“Why’d you call it the ‘Golden Method’?” Jane asked on a particularly good day considering it wasn’t a busy day in any sense of the word. In the summer even criminals were too hot to be bothered to do anything.

“Not my words.” Sherlock replied, looking like a masterpiece of a nude goddess, sprawled over the sofa and modesty only retained by her thin sheet. “After several experiments it was the method that was most faultless. You want to learn it.”

It wasn’t a question.

“It’s only natural; you enjoy the scientific process and the way I teach, as well as the benefit of it appealing to your caretaker nature.” Sherlock continued, her voice thick; coagulated by the heat. She sat up, whipping the sheet around herself elegantly with one throw of her arm. “Come on.”

Jane finished the last of her tea and turned the telly off. Then stood and straightened her shorts, wandering after Sherlock into her bedroom with her arms crossed.

"I thought you said you were feeling alri- oh, wow. Okay." She said, standing in the doorway to see Sherlock throwing the sheet onto the bed. She watched the fabric bloom and settle, but focused on the curve of Sherlock's arse; her silhouette; her mass of curls brushing her shoulders.

"I do feel alright, Jane." Sherlock replied, apparently not having noticed that Jane's attention was now elsewhere. She leaned over the bed and flattened out the corners and creases. When she straightened up again she felt curious fingers on the small of her back. "Not one hour ago you were telling me it was too hot to go to Bart's." She said dryly.

"I'm not suggesting going to Bart's," Jane replied, catching Sherlock's eye and smiling. She guided Sherlock's back so that they were stood facing each other, her free hand found it's home in the subtle curve of Sherlock's waist. "I'm suggesting we ruin your sheets."

Sherlock dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, Jane's hands sliding up her body from the movement. She placed her own hands on Jane's hips and sneaked her fingers under her top, dragging it upwards.

"Off," she commanded.

Jane smirked softly but complied. She tossed the top aside and let her hands fall to Sherlock's shoulders.

“People usually say please, you know.”

Sherlock snorted. “People,” she repeated, dragging her fingers up to efficiently undo and throw aside Jane’s bra. Her fingers followed the dents made by the fabric, then traced the deeply scarred skin of her shoulder. “Exit wound,” she murmured thoughtfully, her touches soft while she examined the bumpy and discoloured flesh, until she began roughly pulling off Jane’s shorts with a change of pace.

“Whoa, steady on Sherlock!” Jane laughed, putting her hand to Sherlock’s shoulder to balance herself, still giggling when she stepped out and kicked aside her shorts and pants. Something about the way Sherlock was looking at Jane comforted her. Rather than being put off by the stares and inconsiderate investigative method, it reassured her. If Sherlock began acting different, then she really would begin to panic.

Sherlock was now examining the scar on Jane’s thigh but was rudely interrupted by a hand on her jaw. She didn't even need to think before parting her lips, she was so used to their kissing. She tilted her head up and accepted the heated kiss, her mind refocusing on Jane here and now and away from Jane of the past. She ran her hands possessively over the curves of Jane’s body, squeezing muscle and soft flesh in her palms.

Jane tangled her hands in Sherlock’s hair and stepped between her legs, pulling their bodies together passionately. They fell back and into a familiar round of rolling each other over while they kissed. She pinned Sherlock, only to be flipped and pinned herself.

She arched up and wrapped her legs around Sherlock’s, moaning at the feeling of being utterly consumed and covered by the other woman. That was one advantage of having a partner who was so tall and loved to be centre of attention.

Sherlock pulled back with a gasp from the kiss, panting and staring down at Jane.

“Yes?” She breathed, unfocused eyes looking back and forth between Jane’s.

“Yes,” Jane whispered, finding her voice but nodding along with her words anyway. She lunged up before Sherlock could make another move and pushed her up the bed so dark curls tumbled over the stark white pillow.

She trapped Sherlock’s lower lip between her own and grinned, keeping a hand over Sherlock’s stomach to keep her in place. She nosed at Sherlock’s jaw and began to bite at her throat, licking over the now reddened skin with a smug sense of ownership. She could feel Sherlock’s breath hitch under her palm so she went lower, encouraged, and began nipping at the soft underside of Sherlock’s breasts, thumbing over her nipples roughly.

Sherlock excelled in everything they did together, so now it was Jane’s time to shine. It had been a long time since she’d had a female lover, but she knew women’s bodies and she knew _Sherlock_. Her sheer determination to please Sherlock and make her moan would surely help along the way.

With that in mind, Jane got to work kissing Sherlock’s throat, squeezing her breasts, rolling her nipples, scratching her sides. She trailed her free hand over the softness of Sherlock’s stomach, the point of her hipbone, all the way to the heat between her thighs.

They both moaned at the first touch; swallowing the sounds in each others mouths. Jane felt Sherlock’s legs part as she touched her, slicking up two fingers and tracing them over her wet folds in light circles. She’d forgotten how smooth and just how wet a woman could become. She explored Sherlock for a few moments - starting slow and light before she began to build pressure, trying to see what Sherlock responded to the most.

They weren’t kissing anymore, but their mouths brushed with each breath and Jane could see her own eyes in Sherlock’s pupils when they weren't closed in pleasure. It gave Jane a moment to fully appreciate the flush of Sherlock's cheeks and the awe that she felt now they were so close.

Slowly, Jane pressed one, then two fingers inside Sherlock, pushing the heel of her palm against her mons and clit while she massaged at her inner walls. Sherlock’s breath stuttered, tickling Jane’s lips and filling her mouth with the taste of detective when a rougher spot was grazed by her fingertips. Suddenly there was a hand at Jane’s back, forcing her down against Sherlock’s thigh, and a groan burned at her lips.

“Oh god, Sherlock.” Jane moaned, grinding her hand against Sherlock and fucking her mercilessly now with her fingers; pumping in and out hard, curling them just so. She loved the way Sherlock couldn’t seem to decide between watching her, staring wide at the ceiling, or clenching shut tightly. The last often came with the most glorious stifled moan Jane had ever heard and she counted herself lucky that she was able to hear it over and over, along with a litany of many more amazing sounds.

Rocking against Sherlock’s thigh was something Jane hadn’t imagined doing (usually she pictured kissing those long legs in front of the fireplace until Sherlock was begging) but if she had imagined it, she knew that her mind would never match up to the reality. She couldn't help but cry out, trying to stifle it against Sherlock's parted lips while she rocked. Sherlock’s thigh was wet between hers, the mere thought of it made Jane tremble in excitement and grind her hips harder against Sherlock.

Sherlock’s nails dug into Jane’s upper arms, marking her with tiny crescent shapes. She was absolutely writhing under Jane’s touch and Jane couldn't feel more powerful in that moment. Here she had Sherlock spread under her, feet kicking restlessly and hips grinding against her hand, more wanton as any other person Jane had been with. It was hard and fast and Jane's hand was getting tired, but she could feel Sherlock's body growing closer and closer to climax, and she didn’t particularly want to stop either.

"Oh, fuck yeah. Come for me, Sherlock." She growled breathily against Sherlock's mouth, kissing her hard as her own rutting became more powerful, less coordinated. Heat built in her stomach and she rode Sherlock's thigh as if it would save the world.

"Jane, Jane," Sherlock gasped quietly, wrapping her hand around the back of the doctor’s neck to keep her close. Sherlock came with Jane's name on her lips, subtle and intimate against the rocking of the bed springs and Jane's louder cry of completion.

The doctor half collapsed on Sherlock's chest, her elbow barely just keeping her up on the bed so that only their chests were touching and Sherlock didn’t have to take her weight. She shut her eyes and pressed her ear to the soft flesh to listen to the sound of Sherlock living.

Her fingers were still inside Sherlock, her hole wet and fluttering around her each time her hand shifted, causing Sherlock to whimper in pleasure.

"You like that?" Jane whispered softly, taking out her fingers from Sherlock and spreading the sticky juices over her clit and lips.

"Mm," Sherlock nodded, parting her legs again. She was breathless and still unfocused, apparently lost in the afterglow.

When Jane touched her, Sherlock's whole body twitched with each pass of her fingers and Jane grinned. She pecked the younger woman's parted lips, gathering her into one arm while she explored her for a second time and effectively kept her in a haze of pleasure.

Mine, Jane thought possessively, feeling giddy in her own bubble of bliss. She kissed Sherlock again and shallowly traced the delicate satin skin of her hole, keeping her close physically and mentally before they had to go their separate ways again.

Finally Sherlock stopped twitching from her caresses and Jane circled Sherlock’s nipples with her wet fingertips, giggling and blowing cool air over them to make them stand tight and hard. “I’m obsessed with your body already,” she said with a grin.

“Already?” Sherlock repeated, her voice thick and deep with arousal. She cleared her throat and smirked slightly, turning over onto her front and presenting Jane with a whole new area of her body to play with. “You’ve been obsessed with my body for months, if not years, doctor Watson. Or do you prefer Captain when we’re like this?”

In testament to that fact, Jane licked her lips in response to Sherlock’s voice purring her titles. Realising this, Jane laughed and spanked Sherlock’s arse gently. “Stop it, you-”

“Amazingly attractive woman?”

“I was going to say right git, you right git.” Jane laughed again, this time pressing kisses to the arse cheek she hit, trailing them upwards over Sherlock’s slender spine.

“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed in appreciation, or at least that’s what Jane thought it was before Sherlock added: “Fetch me my phone.”

Jane shot Sherlock a look and she rolled her eyes. “Pretty please, Jane.”

After a few minutes of rummaging around, Jane returned to the bed and slipped under the sheets to sit with Sherlock against the pillows, handing over her phone. “I hope you’re not writing about this on your blog,” she said dryly.

“No, I’m texting Lestrade.”

“What? You need a case already? I couldn’t move if you asked me to.”

“I did ask you and you did move,” Sherlock pointed out. “But no. I’m telling him that he and all the others owe us our money.”

“The bet money? You bet this month?”

“I bet this week, yes. And no, I didn’t fiddle with any of the variables in order to get us money. Although the total should be around £200 and do you know what we could get with that?”

“Wait, hold on. How did you know it would be this week if you didn’t manipulate me into it?” Jane asked, still trying to catch up. It wasn’t her fault; her brain was still riding high, Sherlock was still naked, and her hands smelled deliciously of Sherlock’s sex. Sherlock put on her lecture face and Jane almost wished she hadn’t asked, but smirked fondly to herself and listened attentively anyway.

“Process of elimination: we began touching more intimately after you discovered me in my room during an episode and that nearly doubled again after we experienced one together. Obviously you had no idea because you were an idiot about it all, but still you got there in the end. Now that narrowed it down to this month and as I keep a study of your menstruation cycles I could eliminate the last week of this month, as I expect you wouldn’t want our first time to be during your period as I understand sometimes you do not experience any sexual desire. Then again you are occasionally filled with sexual tension, which I can now fulfill of course.

“Back to the point; that left us three weeks to be dealing with. Judging from the progression of our kissing and sleeping arrangements, as well as your body language showing more open sexually interested signs and responding positively to my own, I was able to narrow it down to this week. I wasn’t certain at first due to the forecast; as you said you are often inactive on days such as these, even though you enjoy the heat much more than the cold. But obviously I needn’t have worried. Because I said I would bet to the week rather than the month like everyone else - along with my vow to not influence matters and to chip in a larger bet than average - I was allowed to participate and put my bet in last month after you mentioned it to me.

“And the answer to my question by the way (the one about our bet winnings, if you’ve forgotten), was a beehive plus bees. Knowing you however, there is an alternative option in this aesthetically pleasing hardness we could use with one of your toys. I imagine it should fit, otherwise we’d simply have to buy our own new one to use. There’s an ingenious ‘strapless strapon’ I’ve seen too, which we would probably have money left over to spare for. I understand that some women in relationships with other women do not find male anatomy appealing in any way at all, even down to penetrative toys, however considering both our pasts I’m sure that my suggestions would be met by interest. I’ll email you links now if you like.” Sherlock finished, turning to tap at her phone that she’d seemed to have forgotten during her speech, waving it around dismissively when she was making her points.

Jane sat feeling a little overwhelmed, but not unused to the sensation of being swamped by information in such a blast. Fortunately Sherlock was too busy on her phone to demand an answer, so she took a moment to compose herself.

“You know, you make everything seem so absurdly simple when you explain it. And it’s all just common sense to you really, isn’t it? Just something you naturally do.” She said, not even bothering to tone down the awe in her voice. Sherlock faced her and Jane kissed her already reddened lips softly, cherishing the warmth and feel of their mouths pressed together.

“I do mean it when I say I envy the way your mind works, Jane. I don’t all the time, but when I say it I truly do feel envy for the simplicity of not seeing everything and of always being able to filter out vast quantities of information.”

“But then you’d be an idiot just like me,” Jane replied, her tone playful, trying to lighten Sherlock’s mood again. It worked and a smile formed at Sherlock’s lips.

“Ah, but you’re far more interesting than the average idiot,” she replied, abandoning her phone to stroke Jane’s thigh. “I didn’t know you had been injured here.”

Jane hummed in agreement, watching Sherlock curiously. “I had an injury that meant I couldn’t play rugby for a while and I never went back, then a shrapnel wound a month or so before I was shot. There’s probably some deep psychological meaning about symbolism and stress that explains why this is the leg that had the psychosomatic limp, but neither of us really care for that much, do we?” She sighed with a smile, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“There is always much more to you than meets the eye, Jane.” Sherlock said, stroking her thumb gently over Jane’s bottom lip, causing the doctor to look up. She grinned and their lips met again, a silent _I love you too_ passing between them.

*

“I thought you were supposed to be good at tying knots,” Sherlock drawled, lazing back on the bed while she waited for Jane.

“I am!” Jane defended, trying to work out what she had done to the rope around Sherlock’s ankle that made it so stubborn to stay right where it was.

“Forget the rope, Jane. The rope isn’t the important part.”

Determined, Jane ignored Sherlock and focused solely on her task of freeing the woman. She’d been trying to tie her to the end of the bed, only to get the rope tangled in her distraction.

“Jane,” Sherlock whined, growing impatient. She shook off the hands and the rope, throwing it aside. “Stop procrastinating.”

“I’m not, I’m just… Taking my time,” Jane replied, giving Sherlock a look.

“By all means, take all the time you need.” Sherlock replied with false generosity. She settled back down, placing her head on the pillows and closed her eyes.

Soon she felt soft fabric cover her eyes and breath tickle her lips. Cheekily, she leaned up and stole a kiss while Jane tied the blindfold around the back of her head.

“Careful, or I might gag you too.” Jane said and Sherlock could hear the fond smile on her lips.

“You wouldn’t - you like it when I make noises.”

“Too right.”

Soft creaking of the bed filled the air as Jane shifted around and tucked Sherlock’s hair behind her ears. Lips were against hers again and the headphones settled over Sherlock’s ears, muffling sound slightly. There was a change in weight distribution on the bed again while Jane moved and then the beautiful sounds of the piano filled her ears.

She had told Jane before they started to give her a little while to get into the right frame of mind. After a few minutes she’d forgotten how long she’d been cut off for and whether or not Jane was still even in the room.

She felt lulled by the music, but also she was growing more excited as each second passed and she was made to wait longer.

The first touch to her body was a surprise. Just one fingertip touched her sternum and started tracing patterns on her skin. If she had use of her eyes she would be able to deduce from Jane’s expression where her intended pattern was going to go, but unable to do that each stroke seemed much more intimate somehow.

There were more fingers now, more for her to follow, criss-crossing over her flesh and setting her nerves alight. She was sure must be moaning, but her mind was concentrating too much on Jane to care.

Fingers pinched at her nipples and rolled, causing small shocks to build and shoot straight to her groin, making her squirm under Jane’s clever fingers. She arched up, breasts covered by Jane’s palms, squeezed, kissed, owned.

The kisses followed down a trail Jane had mapped earlier. In agonising slowness, Jane made her way from Sherlock’s breasts to her stomach. There was something blunt and hard against her hips, grazing the prominent bones, and Sherlock realised it was her teeth. She gasped softly and writhed, her thighs pressing together as pressure built in her groin.

Her ankles were pulled apart by strong hands, cool air circling her heat. She gasped, feeling exposed completely to Jane; body and mind laid bare for her to do what she wished with. Hands moved her own to her hair and she obediently tangled her fingers in her curls, no part of her body left hidden from Jane’s view.

"Please!" She gasped, desire too much now. She could barely hear her own voice past the music and the thumping of her temples.

Nails scratched at her sides, from underarm to thigh, setting her alight, making her arch from the bed and buck her hips. She wished momentarily that she could see Jane. She wanted to look at the wonder and desire barely suppressed in her eyes. She wanted to watch her chest rise and fall, hitching with excitement when Sherlock moaned a certain way. But not being able to see made the anticipation more urgent, and it also made the touches more pure now she wasn't distracted by observing. Everything felt stronger.

Jane's hands were on her inner thighs now, pushing her legs onto her shoulders. Sherlock squeezed the curls in her hand and trembled. Despite expecting the first kiss to her cunt, she still groaned loudly when Jane leaned forwards and pressed her lips to Sherlock's. Jane was surprisingly enthusiastic when she got into the rhythm of licking Sherlock and holding her hips down too. The detective was a writhing mass before long.

Jane pressed her tongue flat against her clit and Sherlock cried out, unable to stifle it. She couldn't even recall when Jane had put fingers inside her, but they were there and curling, rubbing, tapping inside her, so when and how didn't matter to Sherlock at all.

The woman was now an expert at fingering her, Sherlock decided. She felt high, anchored to the earth only by the heat of Jane's body between her shaking thighs. Her orgasm hit her violently and she twisted on the bed, wanting more and less and more and oh god, Jane.

Sherlock slumped back down on the sticky sheets, an Étude lulling her body to relaxation. Just like she'd barely noticed fingers penetrating her, she couldn't remember them leaving.

Jane's breath was against her lips again, musky and sweet, so Sherlock parted her own, wanting to enjoy that extra intimacy.

Wet fingertips pressed against her mouth instead, but she readily kissed those anyway. She imagined she must be a sight: hair no longer neat, perhaps even frizzy from all the tugging, fingers slack but still tangled in the mess. Face half hidden by the blindfold, but a blush visible over her cheeks and lips; cheeks hollowed and mouth now filled with fingers to clean.

There was another shaky breath against her lips and suddenly the fingers were gone.

"Jane?" Sherlock asked, her voice distant and probably too loud in the otherwise quiet room. Hands held hers again and guided them upwards to settle on skin. She squeezed gently and decided they were hips. Jane's thumb pressed at her lower lip, opening her mouth, and Sherlock parted her lips again, eagerly lifting her head from the bed to taste Jane's pussy.

Considering Sherlock hadn't touched Jane, she was quite flattered by how aroused she felt. Jane was more shaven than her, so when she pressed her tongue inside her to get more of that delicious taste her nose was tickled by short hairs.

She adored every second of it, even when her jaw began to ache, but it was more than made up for when Jane began twitching around her tongue. She seemed to have forgotten herself and gripped Sherlock's hair in a tight fist to press her closer, rocking her hips almost violently as she rode out her orgasm on her face. Sherlock licked and licked, happy to pleasure her doctor.

Jane disappeared then reappeared again, setting about cleaning Sherlock up and taking away the blindfold and music. But Sherlock was already busy thinking, calculating the results of their experiment.

*

"Don't tell me you were thinking about a case this whole time," Jane laughed, only half serious. Sherlock definitely had her thinking face on; the one that normally said not to disturb her. But Jane was feeling giddy and adventurous, so pressed their mouths together in an attempt to get her attention again. Sherlock started responding after a few moments and Jane watched her eyes refocus, then laughed again, breaking the kiss.

"I have concluded that while sensory deprivation enhances my sexual responses, it doesn't make sex necessarily more enjoyable." Sherlock replied, stretching and flexing her wrists with a small, lazy smile.

"You know that makes no sense, right?" Jane asked, moving her hands to cup Sherlock's waist while she arched. How was this woman so sensual?

"It means that hearing and seeing you makes the experience of sex better. I get enjoyment of purely a physical nature from touches, but more comes from simply seeing you or hearing you." Sherlock elaborated, nonchalantly rolling Jane off her with a push and pillowing her head on the woman's breasts.

Jane snorted softly and smiled down at the mop of curls on her chest. "Well that's good I suppose; less prep, I mean. So I can have my way with you in the hall after cases straight away and still have you begging for me to give you more."

"I don't beg," Sherlock replied, giving Jane a look. She ignored that fact that she had said 'please' to Jane barely half an hour before. "And how do you know it won't be me having my way with you after a case?"

Jane opened her mouth to speak, only for a quiet beep to interrupt her.

Then another.

And then another.

She watched Sherlock rummage around for her phone, the detective's eyes lighting up as she read what was on the screen. Lestrade with a very interesting case then. Possibly a multiple homicide even.

Jane smirked, catching Sherlock's eye. "Let's go and find out then, shall we?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest story I've ever written and it was really fun to write! Hope you enjoyed too.


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